


History Obliterates

by holograms



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Memory Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6108764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Hamilton has had Aaron Burr erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again. Thank you.</p><p>Alex forgets, and then Aaron does, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History Obliterates

**Author's Note:**

> One day I had the thought that mixing Hamilton with the memory-erasing concept from the movie _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ was a good idea, and I haven't had peace since.
> 
> You don't need to have seen the movie to understand this. Just a plot device from it is used.
> 
> Also, many thanks to videogamedoc87, who has been very tolerant with me as I've whined about this fic for two weeks. You're the best.

Aaron goes to Weehawken. 

He doesn’t know why. He wasn’t thinking of _why_ when he made the spur of the moment decision to take a middle-of-the-night bus into New Jersey. At the time, the reason why wasn’t important. He had woke up from another tormenting dream with that ever-present ache in his chest, and the notion was there in his head— 

_Weehawken. Dawn._

He is not an impulsive person.

And yet, here he is.

The quiet of the ride has allowed him to think about what he’s doing. Even though he feels ridiculous for following the instincts of a half-dreamed idea, it feels _right._

It would be a lot easier to feel wrong if it weren’t for the voice that isn’t his own that floats in his subconscious and is praising him for overcoming his indecisiveness. 

He glances at the time on his phone. 4:42 AM.

Aaron is a big believer of the saying _nothing good happens past 2 AM._

It seems as though most people have the same idea. There’s only two other passengers on the bus: an old lady with upwards of six bags in the seat next to her, and a Latino guy with a sloppy ponytail and his face pressed against the window.

Aaron wonders what their story is.

He isn’t really sure what his own is. He can’t help but think that there’s something missing. Something that hasn’t happened yet.

So, he waits.

 

 

 

 

History repeats itself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> Dear Mr. Burr,
> 
> **Alexander Hamilton** has had **Aaron Burr** erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him again.
> 
> Thank you.

After the initial shock of the letter, Aaron admits that he should have seen it coming. Alex has always had to have the last word. Leave it to him to create the ultimate final word between them, making it so Aaron _can’t_ respond.

Alex has always been all-or-nothing.

Aaron thought that there would be more fanfare to the memory erasure procedure. Sure, he’s received similar letters about people who have had their memories wiped clean of another (don’t mention John André to Washington, and even though James and Thomas are friends now don’t talk about _before_ because Thomas won’t remember), but Aaron has never been the target for elimination — he thought he would get more than the standardized letter that everyone else who knows them will get. A letter that says _you_ have been erased from Alexander’s memory, please never mention _your_ relationship to him again.

But maybe the personalization would be too cruel. No need to emphasize the loss.

Aaron goes to visit Eliza, because if anyone knew Alex was going to do this, she would’ve.

She has a letter too, _Dear Ms. Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton has had Aaron Burr erased from his memory—_

“You cannot make him remember,” Eliza says. “You hurt him. You might as well have killed him.” 

“He started it,” Aaron says, and then adds, “And finished it too, apparently.”

A muscle in Eliza’s cheek twitches, and there’s that famous Schuyler sister fury and Aaron can’t bear to look her in the eye when she says, “See, that’s what he was talking about. You just couldn’t let it go.”

Aaron physically hurts. It centralizes somewhere tucked behind his ribcage. “I can’t believe that he hates me so much that he would do this.”

When he returns his gaze to Eliza, she’s no longer angry — she just looks _sad._

“Alex doesn’t—didn’t hate you,” Eliza says. “That’s the point.”

 

Alex may not have hated him, but Aaron hates him. He hates that Alex has done this to him, that Alex could have written him out of his life so easily. He hates that Alex has left an impression, and while Alex can go and _forget,_ Aaron has to reckon with the effects of Alex’s life on his.

He feels — bereft.

Less. 

It leaves only one option.

It’s promised that after, Aaron will not remember Alex. To Aaron, it’ll be like Alex never existed — his memories will be edited so Alex won’t be connected to parts of his life Alex was in, and the memories that solely consist of Alex will be removed, one by one.

“Will it hurt?” Aaron asks.

“It’s a painless procedure,” the technician says as she hooks Aaron up to the machine, connecting wires to the electrodes on his skin. “You won’t feel a thing.”

Aaron shakes his head. “No. I mean — will _I_ hurt, after? Like I do now?” he asks, and the quiet of his voice surprises himself. And then the technician understands, and she smiles, sadly. Aaron supposes that she’s seen a lot of people hurt, and fall out of love. That it happens all the time.

It’s a good thing there’s an easy fix to forget.

Loving Alex hurt — and yes, Aaron realizes now that even though he hates him he still loves him, too. 

That’s why he has to do this.

In his hands he holds the last memory he has of Alex — a letter that Alex left on the nightstand (the shitty IKEA nightstand that they bought and assembled together — Aaron remembers how they got into a fight about the directions for it but then ended up leaving it half-constructed while they fucked on the floor next to it) when he left and never came back. The letter is hard to read, but Aaron remembers every word, every phrase, _you’re amoral_ and _dangerous disgrace_ and _you only care about yourself_ and _I won’t apologize_ and _I’ll see you on the other side._

“Does it hurt?” Aaron repeats. He needs to know — will he still ache for Alex, even when Aaron doesn’t remember him?

The technician pats his hand. “It does, only until it doesn’t.” 

Aaron doesn’t really have time to contemplate what that means or if he even wants that pain to stop, because the lights dim and he’s being told, “Think of when you first met Alexander Hamilton.” 

The memory comes easy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alex had found him.

Aaron remembers it clearly: Alex bounding up to him, asking, “Are you Aaron Burr, sir?” and then going into a diatribe about how he’s heard about Aaron on campus, how he wants to be on the accelerated law track like him, how he wants to achieve his legacy.

The memory is strong, so vivid, it’s like Aaron is living it again. Alex is right there, right _here_ — hair pulled back into a ponytail, beard needing a trim, eyes bright and shining as he talks about his future, his spirit contagious. Aaron had been impressed (no, not impressed — _enchanted_ ) by Alex from the start and now he is all over again, and for a moment he forgets the anger he feels for him because fondness overwhelms. 

This time, when Aaron says, “Talk less, smile more,” it’s because he wants to be able to process every moment of Alex, he wants to savor every detail, and he’s missed Alex’s smile so much—

—but then the memory ends, and fades away.

 

Aaron remembers falling in love with Alex quickly.

As in: he remembers with a jolt of how it happened, and he remembers that the process had been _fast._

At the time, Aaron hadn’t thought of it as being in love — he wouldn’t let himself, because if he loved Alex that means that it would hurt more when he loses him (and he was right, Aaron thinks, he _did_ lose him). But there is nothing else to describe it. Alex wrote himself onto Aaron’s heart, made himself necessary. Aaron loved his smile, his charm, the softness of his stomach, his _passion_ , and he secretly loved all the things about Alex that he pretended to be annoyed by, like: his propensity for long rambling text messages, the way he shoved his cold feet against Aaron’s when they were in bed, how he always had something to say because he could never ever shut up.

And Aaron knew that Alex loved him, too — Alex talked about not wanting to waste his time, and because he chose to spend his time with Aaron, Aaron felt valuable. Loved. And he knows Alex loved him because Alex had told him all the time, quiet, _I love you_ , whispered against his chest as they fell asleep, or loud declarations ( _“I fuckin’ love Aaron Burr!”)_ shouted across courtyards that made Aaron turn away and his face flush hot.

It had felt suffocating. Having Alex’s compassion was a lot of responsibility — a responsibility that began to feel like a burden, in a way, because failing Alex’s expectations was something he didn’t want to consider.

 _You’ve sabotaged this relationship_ , Aaron remembers Alex telling him.

But he had been wrong — they were doomed from the start.

 

“Papaya or coconut?”

Aaron blinks.  In front of him, Alex holds up two different shampoo bottles and looks at Aaron expectantly.

“Well?” Alex asks.

Aaron remembers this. Alex had dragged him to a beauty store to look at stuff for his hair, and Aaron had followed him around the store and dodged strange looks while Alex read the ingredients of what seemed like every single hair-care product in the store. Aaron knows that Alex is prideful about his hair, they’re at _Ulta_ for fucks sake, but Aaron can’t complain too much, because he likes the way Alex’s hair is soft and silky to the touch, how Alex keens so sweetly when Aaron plays with it absentmindedly while they watch movies, how it curls at the ends when it’s humid outside, how Alex arches his back when Aaron pulls it while he fucks him, how—

— _no_ , none of that happens now, that’s in the past. This is just a memory.

“Coconut,” Aaron says, pointing to the bottle in Alex’s right hand. It’s what he picked before, when this actually happened, and Aaron remembers the shampoo. It had it smelled wonderful but it made Alex’s hair frizzy and it sat mostly unused in the bathroom cabinet for months and months until Aaron threw it out a week after Alex left. 

Alex raises a brow and shrugs. “What do you know, you hardly have hair,” he says, but he puts the papaya shampoo back on the shelf and keeps the coconut one.

The words come easy to Aaron, since he’s already said them once before. “I may not have as much hair as you, but I do know you’re not supposed to have split ends.” He nods to the coconut shampoo in Alex’s hands. “And that one promises to soothe split ends in two to five washes.”

Alex is aghast. “I do _not_ have split ends!”

But he does. Aaron knows this because the ends of Alex’s hair are prickly and Aaron itches when Alex’s hair brushes against his skin, and Alex wouldn’t have as many split ends if he didn’t twist his hair up into a messy bun all the time when he decides that long hair is too cumbersome.

“Alex,” Aaron starts, but he doesn’t finish because he can’t remember what to say next — it’s slipping away, and he blinks, and then Alex and his shampoo is gone.

 

The remnants of memories are harder to hold on to. They slip away from Aaron’s grasp before he even has a chance to experience them, before he can even know what he’s losing. He’s losing them fast, and now there are holes in his memory where he knows there once was information about Alex carefully filed away. He can’t remember where Alex is from — he knows that it’s somewhere hot but he can’t remember exactly where, and he can’t remember Alex’s birthday, or where they went for their first date, or if Alex liked the rain or not.

“You asked for this,” Alex tells him — but that doesn’t make sense, it’s not Alex. It can’t be.

Aaron guesses that Alex has now taken form as his subconscious. Of _course._

Alex-as-his-subconscious frowns. “You always recoil from confrontation, so I’m not surprised at all you made it so you won’t have to think about me.”

“You aren’t real,” Aaron says. “It doesn’t matter what you think.”

“That’s a non-sequitur.” Not-Alex smirks, in a way that’s too familiar to the real Alex. “Tell me,” he says, “if you’re so desperate to get rid of me—”

“You’re not _my_ Alex—”

“ _Your_ Alex?” this Alex asks, and Aaron flushes because yes, _his_ Alex. The one whose smile made him feel fluttery inside, the one who he thought would be enough, the one he wounded, the one who weighs heavy on his heart and mind.

The Alex shrugs and continues, “If you’re so desperate to forget Alexander Hamilton, then why do you keep clinging to these memories?”

Aaron doesn’t have a good answer.

 

Aaron comes to with Alex’s head on his chest. A few seconds later, Aaron realizes that they’re in _their_ bed — meaning that this memory takes place after they had moved in together. There’s their mixed stack of books on the floor. There’s Aaron’s coat that Alex had claimed as his own. There’s the IKEA nightstand that took them a week to figure out how to put together. There’s Alex, naked, and snug in his arms. 

It’s all so real.

Aaron wants to enjoy this moment for as long as possible, when their animosity for each other didn’t outweigh their affection. It kind of feels wrong, like he’s taking advantage of the situation, but this already happened — and Alex doesn’t know him anymore, so he can’t be angry with him for it.

Too soon, Alex stirs, yawns, and shifts so he’s looking up at Aaron. “G’morning,” he murmurs, and reaches to kiss Aaron.

“Hey,” Aaron says. When he returns Alex’s kiss he feels sick to his stomach. How could they go from this, to where they ended up?

He doesn’t have long to consider it, because Alex sits up in bed. The covers fall from his shoulders to around his waist, displaying a splattering of hickeys on his stomach that Aaron knows he must have put there himself, at one time.

“Do you know what today is?” Alex asks, and Aaron shakes his head because no, he doesn’t know. There’s nothing that gives him an inkling about when this particular memory takes place.

“It’s Wednesday,” Alex says, and he slowly crawls up Aaron’s body until he’s leaning over him, his hair parted as curtains on either side of his face. “Which means we have no class, and no work.”

Right. Aaron remembers this time. Well, not _this_ specific time, but the time period in which it occurs — that one wonderful semester when they arranged their schedules to have a day off in the middle of the week. There were a lot of lazy mornings like this, when they had nothing but time for each other.

(Aaron wishes the memory of waking up to an empty bed and missing Alex would be one of the ones to leave.)

“What do you suggest we do with our abundant free-time?” Aaron asks, grinning and looking up at Alex. He’s playing the game.

Alex tucks his head to bite at Aaron’s collarbone, and then says against his skin, “I thought that maybe you’d fuck me.” He shakes his head to toss his hair back and out of his face in what quite frankly, is a damnable way because it’s so so ravishing, and then Alex bites at the thin skin of Aaron’s neck and murmurs, “Then you could make us breakfast, and then maybe you could fuck me again.” Another bite, followed by a kiss. “If you’re up for it, that is.”

Aaron’s breath catches in his throat when Alex straddles him and rocks his hips forward, his erection rubbing against his, and god, he can’t believe this is happening. That’s Alex’s mouth hot on his and that’s Alex clawing at his chest and begging for more and that’s Alex panting in his ear when Aaron presses slick fingers inside of him.

He flips Alex over and it doesn’t take much — Alex is already stretched and pliant from what Aaron guesses was him getting fucked hard the previous night. Aaron slips in easy and thrusts forward slow, enjoying each sound that spills from Alex’s lips.

It’s different than how it was before. He makes _love_ to Alex, deliberate, and taking in everything of Alex he can hold on to because he doesn’t know how long this will last. He didn’t realize how precious Alex is to him, until he’s losing him — and _actually_ losing him, he won’t have anything left. At least before, he had these memories.

He buries his face into Alex’s chest and tries not to cry.

“Are you okay?” Alex asks, and he rubs Aaron’s back, touches his face to make him look at him. “Aaron? Talk to me.” 

Aaron doesn’t answer, he just continues pushing into Alex until he has Alex shouting out and clutching at the sheets as he shudders against him.

They don’t talk about it as they have breakfast that Aaron made for them, but later when they fuck again Alex rides Aaron hard and unrelenting, like he’s trying to find that same passion that Aaron had earlier. “I love you,” says Aaron, and Alex tilts his head and looks at him strangely, but he keeps working himself on Aaron’s cock, coming a few seconds later and groaning Aaron’s name.

Later, when they’re lying against each other tired and spent, Aaron says it again — “I love you.” It’s easy to say, easier then it had ever been before.

Alex lets out a laugh, which is not the reaction that Aaron had been expecting.

“I thought you said it just because of the sex,” Alex says, and then he rolls over onto his stomach and smiles. “It’s nice. You don’t say it that much.”

 _I didn’t?_ Aaron goes to say, but he forgets.

 

 _No_ , Aaron thinks as soon as the memory settles, _not this._

He knows this one — it’s the beginning of the end. Aaron had stormed into their apartment, and Alex was wearing his favorite green sweater and his socks are mismatched and his glasses are perched on top of his head, and Aaron is _furious._

“You picked Thomas over me,” Aaron finds himself saying (again) before he can stop himself. “You told Washington that he should get the internship instead of me.”

And just like Aaron remembers, Alex sighs, like he knew this was coming. Aaron remembers what Alex says, every word a cut. Alex says, “If I picked you everyone would think it was just because we’re fucking. It wouldn’t be right.”

Aaron wants to ask if Alex really thinks that they’re _just_ fucking and there’s nothing more to their relationship, but something else had stung more. “You don’t think I deserve it?” Aaron asks. He hopes that this time Alex will say something different, but Alex can’t — it’s already written as is.

“Sure, you’re talented,” Alex says. “But you don’t really mean your policies. You’re just saying it because it’s what people want to hear. At least Thomas means his. Even if I hate what he thinks.”

Alex’s brutal honesty is no longer endearing, or sexy, like how Aaron had once found it.

Having the clarity of hindsight, Aaron realizes that this is the moment. The one that changed things, altered their course. He should have said, _it doesn’t matter what people think about you, Alex, there’s more to life than your damned legacy_ and Aaron should have let it go, because it’s just a job and Alex is right, his entire plan that he interviewed with was bullshit.

But he didn’t do anything, and like always, he waited.

It makes him wonder if the disillusionment of their relationship had been fate, or if he had made it that way — if he had drove them apart.

 

“You don’t understand,” Aaron says, and Alex says, “I do understand, that’s why I’m leaving.”

Aaron looks around. It’s their apartment — soon to be only Aaron’s — and there are the boxes Alex had hastily packed up, there’s Aaron’s coat that Alex gave back, there’s the stack of books that’s smaller without Alex’s share of books piled on top.

“Fine.” Aaron knew this was coming. Everyone always leaves him.

Alex lets out a shaky breath and his lip trembles and he looks absolutely _broken_ but then he recovers fast and he frowns and his eyes grow stormy and now, now Aaron knows that Alex had wanted Aaron to fight for him. To take a stand. To let him know that he was worth it.

“No! Fuck, I’m sorry, come back,” Aaron says, but that’s not how it happened, it’s too late to change it, history cannot be rewritten, and Alex slams the door shut behind him.

 

Aaron doesn’t remember why he and Alex are in conflict, but what Alex tells him is enough — they have _incorrigible differences,_ Alex says.

“You’re breaking my heart,” Aaron had admitted, and he admits it again when this memory is replayed — but it was too late. Once Alex makes up his mind, he never alters his course.

“There’s nothing there to break,” Alex says, and Aaron kisses him, because he isn’t sure what else to do. He half expects Alex to shove him away, but Alex returns the kiss, growling against Aaron’s lips and digging his fingers into Aaron’s skin as he pulls him close. 

“This okay?” Aaron says, breathless between biting kisses, and Alex shakes Aaron a little, telling him, “Talk _less_ , Aaron,” and Alex presses him down onto the bed. Aaron grabs at Alex’s sides to hold him steady, and Alex makes desperate frenzied sounds when Aaron slides his hands up his back.

“It’s all been a mistake,” Alex murmurs, but he kisses Aaron anyway, and neither one cares very much about what they _should_ have done.

Aaron knows that it’s their final time together, and that this will be the last he sees of Alex in his memories. They had had a nice bon voyage fuck, and Aaron remembers that there were bruises left behind for days after Alex was gone. He remembers that he falls asleep tangled in the sheets with Alex, but the next morning he finds that goodbye letter on that shitty IKEA nightstand, and then that was that.

 

There’s the Alex that isn’t Alex, or maybe it is Alex, Aaron doesn’t remember enough anymore to know the difference.

Either way, he’s a comfort to Aaron. Something he clings to.

“I made a mistake.” Aaron’s words echo in the room. He wraps his arms around himself. The room is dark and cold as a tomb. He supposes it’s accurate — he’s burying the last of the memories of him and Alex here.

Alex smiles. “I know.” Aaron can hardly see him in the shadows. He catches a glimpse of Alex’s strong nose, a devious flash of his dark eyes, his mouth pressed into a grim, knowing line.

“What do I do now?” Aaron asks. Alex always had a plan. He remembers that much of him.

Aaron shivers when Alex places a hand on his shoulder as he leans in close and whispers, “Meet me in Weehawken.” Alex takes in a sharp breath, like he’s been shot, and says, “I’ll see you on the other side.” 

“What?” Aaron asks, but then—

 

 

 

 

                                                                                              

 

                                                                                             

Aaron dreams of a man.

It’s the same dream he’s had many times. He doesn’t know when they started.

They’re on a shore. They shake hands. They’re holding guns. The metal is cool and heavy in Aaron’s hand. They walk ten paces away from each other. They turn around. Aaron shoots at the man, but the man fires his gun in the sky.

And then Aaron wakes up.

He wishes he knew what it meant.

  

_Talk less, smile more._

Aaron reads the line twice, because he can’t quite believe it, but there it is.

Huh. How about that.

The book had been a random selection. The title _Duel_ had caught his attention, and it’s pretty good so far. It’s set during American Revolution and is about two lawyers having a secret, illicit affair fueled on love and hate that they have to hide from everyone — but the most interesting thing is the coincidence that the phrase that Aaron lives by is in the book.

Talk less, smile more — don’t reveal too much of yourself, appease everyone, do enough to get by.

Aaron would claim plagiarism, but he’s never written those words anywhere. He doesn’t have ownership over them. 

There is such a thing as parallel thoughts, and maybe — Aaron flips to the cover of the book and reads the author’s name — he and this Alexander Hamilton arrived on the same thought.

He doesn’t think much more of it, and continues reading.

 

 _Meet me in Weehawken_ , a voice says, and there’s the promise of, _I’ll see you on the other side._

 

Weehawken is ugly at dawn.

Aaron stands on the dock that overlooks the Hudson River. The surrounding woods make the whole place seem grim and uninviting, and the sun peeking over the treetops don’t make it any better. He had woke with such a clear feeling — that if he came here, everything would make sense, and that his wait would be worth it.

But if anything, his life feels more uncertain.

Aaron lets out an exasperated sigh and tears his gaze away from the river, and that’s the first time that he notices that someone is staring at him.

The person staring at him is a few feet away sitting crossed-legged on a bench and Aaron immediately recognizes him — it’s the Latino guy that had been on the bus this morning. There’s a moment when they meet eyes that makes Aaron choke on his breath, but then the guy quickly looks away and goes back to scribbling in a notebook that’s open in his lap. A few more minutes pass — the sun is fully in the sky now — and Aaron and the guy play the look-at-each-other-but-don’t-let-the-other-see game until the guy has had enough and he shuts his notebook and saunters over to Aaron.

The guy leans on the railing next to Aaron and asks, “What brings you here on this fine morning?”

Aaron frowns. “I don’t know,” he says, because any amount of the truth would sound insane, and he doesn’t want the (cute) guy’s first impression of him to be _total weirdo._ He shrugs, nonchalant. “How about you?”

The guy winces, which emphasize the crinkles around his eyes. He looks away, and Aaron watches as a whole range of expressions pass over the guy’s face. He looks troubled, like he’s contemplating the existential facts of the universe and he can’t make sense of anything. Eventually, he turns back to Aaron, squints, and says, “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.” Aaron doubts the guy’s reasons are less legitimate than his own.

The guy’s eyes go wide, like _okay you asked for it_ , and takes a deep breath and says, “I think I was supposed to come here, on this specific day, at sunrise. My destiny, as it were.” He pauses and looks sheepishly at Aaron before continuing. “I know this has to sound insane, but I—”

“Dreamed it,” Aaron says at the same time as the guy.

Aaron had tried not to say it, not to admit it, but it came spilling out, and now the guy won’t stop _looking_ at him. It’s like Aaron has his full attention now, and Aaron cannot escape it. 

“You too?” the guy asks, and Aaron nods because well, it’s too late to start denying it. 

The guy grins, and _wow_ , even though he looks dead tired his smile is dazzling. Blinding, almost, and it catches Aaron by surprise and damn it, he’s actually a little in awe of this strange guy because he’s gorgeous — not just in the conventional sense, because he is, much so, but also because gives off an infectious vibrant energy so great that it leaves Aaron breathless.

Suddenly, this guy is the loveliest thing on this Weehawken shore.

When Aaron fades back, the guy is saying how happy he is that it just isn’t _him_ and he’s rambling, god, he talks _so much_ , and he’s showing Aaron pages and pages and pages of cramped writing in his notebook, explains diagrams to him, describes the meaning of jotted-down notes.

The more the guy talks, the more he sounds familiar, and if Aaron really concentrates, he looks familiar, too.

“Do I know you?” Aaron asks.

“Impossible.” The guy raises his brows, says, “Your face is not a face I would forget.”

 _Smooth_ , Aaron thinks, and normally he would roll his eyes at that type of thing but he’s totally and utterly charmed.

“I’m Aaron Burr.” Aaron extends his hand out to the guy, who shoves his notebook under his arm so he can take Aaron’s hand between both of his.

“Alexander Hamilton,” the guy says, and Aaron softly laughs because this morning keeps getting stranger.

“What?” Alexander asks. “What’s so funny?”

Aaron shakes his head and pulls the book _Duel_ out of his bag — he had took it with him on the bus with the intention to read, but he was too antsy to focus on the words. “Are you the same Alexander Hamilton who wrote this book?”

Alexander cringes. “Shit, you’ve read that? You must be one of like, ten people.”

“Yeah,” Aaron says, “but I haven’t finished it yet, I’m—”

“Terrible ending,” Alexander cuts in. “One of them kills the other. The title gives it away.” He makes a fingergun motion, _bang bang._ “Very tragic.”

“Oh.” Aaron shoves the book back into his bag. He still wants to finish it, later. “I thought the duel was metaphorical. The duel with their conflicted feelings for each other, and them fighting against the discrimination at the time. I thought that it was brilliant.”

“Stop that,” Alexander says with a guffaw, and waves his hand in a dismissive gesture that seems like he aims to discourage praise, but in actuality he wants to be made a big deal over.

And the thing is — Aaron wants to. Wants to continue to know more about this random guy he was lucky to meet at dawn.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Aaron asks. “Coffee?”

Alexander smiles. “That would be nice.”

There’s a shift in the tension. The start of something new.

 

 

 

History doesn’t repeat itself. It’s just small approximations of the same steps, repeated.

**Author's Note:**

> the novel _Duel_ does not exist. too bad.
> 
> you can find me at tumblr at [acanofpeaches](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com) if you wanna talk about hamilton


End file.
